It's late and there is a staleness in the air. The soft hum of the refrigerator is punctuated by the passing of sedans and heavy trucks, all going somewhere as I stare, immobile, at my winter-ravaged hands. I scratch them between keystrokes, each itch more distracting than the last. Scratching makes the dryness worse. I've known this for many years, yet I continue to do it, because man excels and always has excelled at destroying himself.
I note my incandescent ceiling lights and wonder why I don't light more candles. I get up and light two—one of them a vanilla-scented Avon candle, a thoughtful Christmas gift from a coworker I barely see once a month, the other a rose-coloured Pier 1 pillar candle that had been banished to Value Village unused. The fluttering candlelight emits a softness, creates a marked change in the atmosphere, elivens the once-dead air.
I am reminded of the importance of our material conditions and make a note in my bullet journal, on a page titled "2021 Resolutions":
"#1: buy more candles."